


Dissonant Verses

by JayRain



Series: New Magic and Old Gods [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Chant of Light, Family, Kirkwall (Dragon Age), M/M, Origin Story, Pre-Dragon Age: Inquisition, The Chantry, The Conclave, dissonant verses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-09-23 05:23:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9642506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayRain/pseuds/JayRain
Summary: As the Conclave looms on the horizon, Theo Trevelyan feels mounting dread.  The Maker's will is supposed to bring freedom and peace, so why does he feel so trapped?Direct sequel to The Least of His Children; direct prequel to Fumbling Toward Who We Are





	1. Freedom

**Author's Note:**

> The blame for this falls squarely on I_Write_Tragedies_Not_Sins :D

“Maker of the world, forgive them!  They have lived too long in shadow without your light to guide them.  Be with your children now, O Maker.”  Theo’s lips moved along with everyone else, but he didn’t speak the words.  The Chant was supposed to be pure.  It was supposed to be spoken out of the overflow of the heart.  

His heart was overflowing, alright, but not with the love of the Maker, or devotion to Andraste.  If he spoke what was in his heart right now he’d probably be struck by lightning.  

He sat through the evening’s sermon, trying not to yawn or fidget with the nervous energy that built up after a day of riding and then being forced to sit still through the hours of sermons that followed.  He glanced to the right, where his tent was; inside was his bow and quiver and a stack of sticks he’d gathered at the last water stop.  He’d never be permitted target practice, but if he could at least just strip the bark…

“Amen,” his uncle Declan, seated to his left, said loudly, and Theo muttered “Amen” just as everyone started to get up and head toward the center of the camp for the evening meal.  “Did you hear one word of that sermon?” Declan asked.

“Heard, yes.  Listened, not particularly.”  Theo couldn’t even try to look ashamed.  “Why?  Do they plan to quiz me once we reach the Conclave?”  He turned to head for his tent, but his uncle grabbed him by the shoulder, strong fingers digging into him.  

“Do you know how many people are envious of you right now?” Declan asked.  “You will be in the presence of the Most Holy herself, at one of the most chaotic times in known history.  Everything we know has been turned on end.  The Most Holy has agreed to hear both templars  _ and _ mages and make her decision on the future of both under Chantry rule.  And you will be there.”

Of course Declan, and his other uncle, Cadan, would be in awe of their opportunity to attend the Conclave.  Both had been in the templar order since they were teens.  The third and fourth sons of the Trevelyans, both were expected to serve the Chantry: same as Theo, the youngest child and third son of this generation of Trevelyans.  But Theo was no mage, nor was he in templar training, as his mother had forbidden it.  He had nothing at stake in this venture, and as such, was miserable.

“You’re not going to be quizzed,” Declan said at last, releasing his grip on his nephew and sighing.  “But the sermons are designed to help us all prepare ourselves for the Conclave: spiritually, intellectually, and emotionally.”

“Fine, I’ll listen better next time,” Theo said, but the words sounded hollow and elicited another sigh from his uncle.  “I’m going back to my tent.  You may want to set my guard early in case I try to escape,” he added, stalking back to his tent.

It was an unfair barb and he knew it, but he was so frustrated.  If they just rode during the day, it would be one thing.  But there were frequent stops, and at those stops the Revered Mothers went around blessing people and taking confession.  Some had even expressed concerns for Theo’s health, as he always seemed to be ill during rest breaks.  He was going to have to find a new excuse to avoid them.  When they rode, very few people spoke, or at least not like friends on a trip or in a tavern might.  There was a lot of quoting the Chant, and lively debates about it, and serious discussions about the events in the world at large since Kirkwall.  He hadn’t grown up with the other Chantry brothers (most of whom were orphans or from middle class families), and no one seemed interested in talking with the Bann’s youngest son.  And they didn’t ride much faster than a leisurely walk most of the time.  He longed to spur his horse into a full gallop and just ride toward the horizon.

It was like the trip was being prolonged to torture him.

Also an unfair assessment, but he’d never been more unhappy in his life.

There was no running away, he’d known that much from the start.  He didn’t have enough underworld knowledge to make it in any city underbelly.  He looked like a rich man’s son who had no clue what he was doing, and unfortunately, that assessment was quite fair.  But beyond that, his uncles rode close to him during the day.  And the first night, Theo had gotten up to relieve himself in the middle of the night, only to find a watchman stationed close to his tent.  He’d thought the man a perimeter guard until he felt the guard’s eyes on him, then heard his step in the bracken… then passed him as he headed back to his tent, pretending to keep watch.

His father couldn’t be arsed to care about him, and yet had taken great pains to instruct the Trevelyan convoy to keep Theo in line.  If he felt tears, he wasn’t sure if they were from sadness or anger.

* * *

 

The next day was much the same, as they headed west toward Kirkwall.  “I hear Kirkwall’s dangerous this time of year,” he told his uncle Cadan as they rode side by side.

Cadan laughed.  “No one can accuse you of having no sense of humor,” he said.  “As dangerous as Kirkwall may seem this time of year, the sea is far more dangerous.”

“Hence why we didn’t just sail from Ostwick.”

Cadan nodded.  “That, and none of us really fancied the idea of being aboard a ship for at least a couple of weeks.  Most of us Chantry sorts don’t have the legs for a calm sea, let alone the rough ones,” he added.

But that night’s sermon said what Theo’s uncle hadn’t been.  “Our steps started from Ostwick, but our journey began in Kirkwall,” the Revered Mother said, a mournful tone in her voice.  She bowed her head and an acolyte walked between the rows of travelers, swinging a censer.  Theo tried to stifle a cough as the pungent incense hit his nose and mouth and sounded like a choking nug.  “We pray for the repose of Elthina’s soul.  We pray for the lives lost when the Chantry was destroyed.”  Lots of mumbling around him.  “We pray that the Maker will open our eyes and prepare our hearts to do the work of him and his Bride, blessed Andraste.”

This was a regular sight-seeing trip.

“Pilgrimage,” Cadan corrected him, when the Revered Mother shot a nasty glare in his direction later during dinner.  “Why must you keep fighting this?” he asked.  But he didn’t appear angry.  Theo knew the expression well: he was frustrated, uncertain of how to deal with his stubborn nephew.

“This wasn’t my choice.  I think I can fight as much as I’d like,” Theo told him.

Cadan sighed and set down his hunk of bread.  “We don’t always get to choose, Theodane.  The Maker chooses for us.  And we can fight it and be miserable, or accept it and work to fit into His will.”

“Did the Revered Mother tell you to say that?” Theo asked.  He pushed his bread around in the gloopy brown stew.  

“Would it shock you to know that I truly believe that?” Cadan asked with a half-hearted grin.  “Perhaps it was easier for me because Declan and I went into training around the same time.  We were not so alone as you feel.  But this is the way of things.  There’s a certain freedom, or a peace that you achieve by knowing that you’ve submitted to the Maker and have pledged to do His work.”

Theo ran his hand through his hair and sighed.  Intellectually, he knew what his uncle was saying.  Emotionally, he couldn’t see or feel this as peaceful or free.  “I’ll… at least think about what you’ve said,” he finally told Cadan, who was watching him intently in the firelight.  “But it doesn’t help that Kirkwall is known as the City of Chains.”

Cadan sighed, but he still managed a smile.  “You are so much like your father,” he said.  “I know you don’t think so,” he called after Theo, who stood up and started to walk away. “But you’re both more stubborn than a herd of donkeys.”

“You’ve got the donkey part right when it comes to Father,” Theo muttered, so Cadan couldn’t hear.

Much as he didn’t want to admit it, Cadan’s pep talk had helped some.  Theo realized that not even his older siblings had seen Kirkwall yet.  If his parents had been to Kirkwall, it was before his birth.  He would at least get to see more of the world than the narrow confines of Ostwick.

He knew they were getting close when they broke for camp earlier than usual, and the sermon was short.  That night dinner was eaten quickly, and the rest of the evening soldiers and templars spent polishing their swords and armor.  Grooms spent their time currying the dusty horses.  Theo saw to his own horse, enjoying the methodical work of grooming his gelding.  The horse whickered softly as he worked to detangle the mane, and scratched behind its ears.  He moved on to the hoofpick, biting his lower lip as he dug clods of dirt out.  By the time he was done his chestnut horse was softly gleaming in the setting sunlight, and Theo himself was filthy.

It was still relatively warm, and they’d made camp next to a creek.  The camp was bustling with people preparing themselves to enter Kirkwall the next day, so no one noticed when he slipped off further downstream.  He followed the creek around a bend, where it opened up into a pool with a rocky beach that was shielded by some brush and small trees.  

Theo glanced around and tugged off his dirty clothing, and then waded into the middle of the pool as quickly as he could.  It was colder than he expected, but being cold was better than anyone stumbling on him completely nude.

It was quiet here, with only the birds chirping the last of their songs for the day and the sound of the creek bubbling over the stones.  The initial chill faded and the water felt good.  Theo ducked below the surface. He opened his eyes.  Beams of sunlight filtered through the clear water and danced on the stones.  It was so quiet and peaceful down here, far more peaceful than any Chantry.

The peace was shattered when two feet entered the water, not far from where Theo was submerged.  There was momentary panic as he realized that he couldn’t stay underwater forever, but had nowhere to hide if he surfaced.

Just shy of drowning, there was no way out of this other than coming up for air and being seen.

He blinked the water out of his eyes and pushed his hair off his forehead as he surfaced, just keeping his head and shoulders above water.  “Oh!  I saw the clothes, but thought someone had gone into the woods. I’m sorry!”  It was one of the grooms.  He’d stripped down to his smallclothes and was standing, up to his calves, in the water.  He blushed, his sandy hair sticking up in spikes like a hedgepig.  He was as embarrassed as Theo was, and Theo found it absolutely adorable.

“It’s okay,” Theo said, not quite meeting the groom’s eyes.  He bit his lip and felt his cheeks grow warm.  The water was cool, but there was still a strange, hot tingling in his groin that he wished he could ignore.  “There’s plenty of room.  I can just go over here…”  He stepped backward and his foot slipped on a mucky rock.  He spluttered as he tried to regain his footing, splashing the groom in the process.

“Hey!  That’s cold!” the young man complained, but he was still smiling and had inched a little closer.

“What’s your name?” Theo asked him.

“Tristan.”  He took another few steps forward.  The water was up to his knees now.  “And… Andraste’s arse, I’m so sorry, you’re the Bann’s son.”

Dammit.  Theo sighed and shivered a little.  “You can call me Theo.  Besides, aren’t we all on this journey to serve the Maker?  Doesn’t that make us all equal in His sight?” he asked ironically.  He may have struggled with what he believed, but he’d had a good education and had an excellent memory.

Tristan finally broke into a grin.  “When you put it that way, it makes sense.”  He waded in until the water was over his hips, then sank down up to his shoulders at the same level as Theo.  “Maker, but this feels good,” he said, closing his eyes.  He ducked under the water for a moment and when he came back up, his hair spikes had flattened.  He tossed something back to the shore and Theo realized that it was his smallclothes.  “Wasn’t sure if I’d be stumbling on one of the sisters or maids,” Tristan explained.  “Figured  _ some _ modesty would be proper, right?”

“Right,” Theo agreed, though when he’d found the pool the thought hadn’t really crossed his mind.  

“Though if I  _ had _ stumbled upon one of them sisters…”  Tristan winked and something gnawed at the pit of Theo’s stomach.

“Yeah, lucky it was just me,” he said, turning his back and scrubbing at his arms and shoulders.  He didn’t want Tristan to see his face reddening with shame and dismay.

“I’m not disappointed,” Tristan said after a moment.  “If it’s… not too bold to say.”

Butterflies fluttered in Theo’s stomach.  The fluttering descended into his groin.  “Um, not too bold at all,” he said, back still turned.  His breathing came a little faster.  He heard Tristan move toward him in the water.  The currents swirled around his legs and backside and he splashed water on his face to cool himself down.

“You’re not built up like those templar types,” Tristan said, voice closer.  “They get all muscly from all that sword swingin’ and shield bashin’.  But you’re not all stringy like the brothers.”

“I’m not  a brother,” Theo told him.  What was he?  He wasn’t quite an initiate, but not a full brother.  Even in the Chantry he didn’t have a place.  He stretched out his arms and craned his head to look behind him.  Tristan’s eyes were on his back and shoulders.  “But I’m probably the best damned archer you’ll ever meet.”  He grinned.

“Gotta have some good aim to shoot,” Tristan said, matching Theo’s grin.

“Like this?”  Theo cupped his hands just below the surface of the water and squeezed.  A jet of water hit Tristan in the face.

“Oy!  That wasn’t funny!” he cried, but his brown eyes were sparkling.  Suddenly he swept his arm across the surface of the pool, sending a drenching wave over Theo’s head.  

Theo splashed back.  Tristan laughed and sent another wave of water his way.  For a moment Theo forgot about the impending Conclave and the Kirkwall pilgrimage and the fact that he was simultaneously someone and no one, depending on what was convenient for people.  He was Theo, having fun in the water.

The splashing stopped, and Tristan had disappeared.  Theo looked around, but then felt a mighty tug on his ankles and he went under.  He came up, coughing and gasping, to see a sodden Tristan laughing at him.  “Not fair,” he said with a pout.

“Gonna do something about that, then?”  Tristan stared him down and Theo’s gaze was drawn to the curve of his lips.

“Maybe?” he asked, leaning toward Tristan, his heart pounding in his chest and his hands tingling.  He bit his lip.  Tristan didn’t move--or he did, just a little, slightly closer.

“Ser Theodane!”  Theo swore and slipped backward again, fumbling for his footing along the rocky bottom.  His uncle’s squire Christopher stood on the bank, head turned away.  “Your uncles request your presence.  I’ve brought you clean and dry clothing,” he said, setting the bundle on the shore and walking a short distance away.

Theo sighed.  Tristan turned away so he wouldn’t see Theo climb out of the water, and remained there until Theo was dressed.  “Tristan, I--”

Tristan turned at last and smiled.  “I know.  This never happened.”

“That wasn’t what I meant--”

Tristan shrugged.  “Doesn’t matter, does it?  But all the same, thanks for sharing the spot.”

Theo sighed and turned to follow Christopher.  For one moment he’d forgotten about all of this.  For one moment he’d been free, and it felt wonderful.


	2. Chains

“All things in this world are finite.  What one man gains, another has lost.  Those who steal from their brothers and sisters do harm to their livelihood and to their peace of mind.

Our Maker sees this with a heavy heart.”  This time Theo did speak the words, clear and articulate as he sat in the front row of the shrine to the Martyr Elthina.  The building was cramped and they sat shoulder to shoulder.  Incense filled the air, making Theo’s eyes water and his throat close up.  Maybe he was allergic to it.

He’d heard the stories of Kirkwall.  He’d been scribing and archiving in the Ostwick Chantry when it all happened and had witnessed hundreds of people coming and going at all hours of the day and night praying for peace and chanting the most beloved verse of all time: “Magic exists to serve man, never to rule over him.”  His father had gone to the Circle to  see to Maranda, his oldest daughter after the White Spire incident not long after, when the mages and templars launched into all out war.  The desperation of one man and his simple desire for freedom had changed the course of their world overnight.

But Theo supposed it was blasphemous to think sympathetically about the Apostate Anders, especially here in Kirkwall.  But really, what if the Grand Cleric had just taken a side?  What if she’d agreed to hear out the mages, or at least put the fanatical Knight-Commander down a few pegs?  Theo was no leader, so perhaps what seemed so simple to him truly wasn’t simple at all.

He shifted slightly on the hard wooden bench.  The discomfort was probably supposed to be symbolic, but really, he figured it was just the result of the hard times Kirkwall had fallen on since the Chantry explosion and ensuing battle three years ago.  His uncles sat on either side of him, and just to the right of Uncle Cadan sat Prince Sebastian Vael of Starkhaven.  Theo had been lectured nearly the entire way into Kirkwall this morning that he was representing another respected Marcher family, all things he’d heard before; all things that were supposed to be important to him, yet he didn’t understand why.  He was a pawn, moved around at the convenience of his father.

A lay sister seated in the corner began to strum a few familiar chords on a lute, cuing them into a hymn.  Everyone rose.  His uncles’ armor creaked on either side of him, and he wondered if this was what mages felt like as they were being escorted by templars: small, soft, cowed.  His uncles both had rich baritone voices; just a little further down, Prince Sebastian’s voice sang out in a loud, clear tenor.  Theo was pretty sure he was tone deaf.  He moved his lips and hoped that everyone else was too busy trying to outsing one another to notice his not-singing.

They filed out of the shrine and he took a deep breath to clear the incense from his lungs and sinuses.  The air smelled of rotting seaweed and fish and salt and mildewed wood and rope.  The faraway calling of the gulls made Theo almost a bit homesick, if you could be sick for a place that had never quite been home.

Most of the Trevelyan retinue headed back toward their camp, set up on the outskirts of Kirkwall and under the protection of Starkhaven’s banners.  Theo, his two uncles, and Revered Mother Igraine were escorted by Prince Sebastian to the ruins of the Chantry.  Three years, and candles still burned on the stone pavilion.  Three years and the sidewalks and nearby buildings still bore the scorch marks of that fateful day.  Three years and people still wept for Grand Cleric Elthina and the others lost the day the world went mad.

Prince Sebastian knelt before what remained of the grand staircase and bowed his head.  His lips moved in silent prayer, and when he finally looked up his blue eyes were glistening.  “The Grand Cleric took me in when I thought I had nothing.  She helped me rediscover the Maker’s purpose for my life.”  He got to his feet.  The clouds overhead broke and the afternoon sun shone down on his pristine white armor and the darkly gleaming bow slung across his back.  Theo found it hard to concentrate on the solemnity of this moment when Sebastian had such a gorgeous weapon that he longed to examine.

“Elthina’s death was senseless,” Mother Igraine said with a sage nod.  “We pray that this Conclave can put an end to the chaos that’s threatening our world.”

“Well spoken, Revered Mother.”  Sebastian stared at the wreckage of the Chantry.  “This is a holy site.  People come from all over to take a piece of the Chantry with them, to remind them that the Maker works in mysterious ways.”  He reached into his leather side pouch and pulled out a small chunk of grayish stone.  He squeezed his hand around it, his knuckles going white.  “I trust the Most Holy to do what is right, though I still struggle with my anger toward the apostate.”  There was no need to utter Anders’s name; throughout the Free Marches he was known simply as “the apostate”, as if saying his name was giving him too much respect.  

“I think we all do, Your Highness,” Cadan said.  “Even those of us in the Order who remain true to its purpose find it difficult to remain effective.”

Sebastian nodded.  “Aye.  You’ve always borne a heavy burden, and now the load becomes nearly unbearable.  And what of your thoughts on this matter?” he asked, suddenly turning the full force of his lightning-blue eyes on Theo.

The way both of his uncles looked at him, Theo knew they were dying to say  _ I told you so _ about listening to the sermons on the way.  This was the test he was supposed to be preparing for, and he was about to fail.  “The Trevelyans have always served the Chantry and sought the Maker’s will,” he managed to choke out, finding it hard to meet that piercing gaze.  “The politics of the situation elude me,” he added honestly, and it seemed the Prince’s expression softened a little bit.  “But I will do as my lord father requires of me,” he added, bowing his head to look contrite, though it was really so no one would see the way his face couldn’t help but contort as he said it.

“As must we all,” Sebastian agreed.  “Take what time you require to meditate here,” he told the small group.  “Later this evening I think I might enjoy your company, Ser Trevelyan,” he told Theo, who didn’t know if he should be thrilled or terrified.

 

* * *

 

Revered Mother Igraine was serious when she told Theo not to say anything that would embarrass the Trevelyan family or the Ostwick Chantry.  Her scowl plainly said that she thought he had no business having an audience with the Prince of Starkhaven, one of the most important city-states in the Free Marches.   _ Go on, keep reminding me that even in the Chantry I have no place, _ he wanted to say, but quite honestly he didn’t feel like even more of a lecture.  He was already dreading what the meeting with the Prince would bring.

A breathless messenger saved him from Igraine’s hen-pecking.  “The Prince requests that you bring your bow and quiver, ser,” he said, but he was watching the Revered Mother rather than Theo.

Theo didn’t care that she probably disapproved.  His hands and arms ached to hold a bow and feel the tension of the string and hear the whistle of the arrow.  He didn’t even know why the Prince had made such a request.  He didn’t care.  He dashed through the camp and ducked into his tent.  He unwrapped the soft cloth around his bow and grabbed his quiver and bowstring and followed the messenger to  a quieter area on the edge of the camp.

They were settled at the base of Sundermount, just far enough outside of Kirkwall so that the reek of the city didn’t permeate their tents.  A target range had been set up on the outskirts of the camp, and Prince Sebastian was waiting there.  He still wore his white armor, and he was holding that gorgeous bow.  

“Your uncle Declan mentioned that you were a fine shot with a bow,” he said, and Theo nodded, still feeling uncertain.  He’d gone out hunting with his uncles a few times, but he didn’t think they’d actually watched him shoot, let alone enough to understand just how natural archery was for him.  “I find target practice to be meditative,” he went on as Theo began to string his bow.  He nocked an arrow and aimed at the target downrange.  Theo’s critical eye swept over his posture and the angles of his arms.  He released, and the arrow flew straight and true and nearly hit the center of the target.  

Theo tested his string and gave it a couple of pulls.  Then he nocked his own arrow, one he’d fletched just the other night.  He drew the bow back, feeling the curve of the wood in his left hand and the tightness in his back and shoulders.  He inhaled, eyes on the target.  He exhaled and let the arrow fly and grinned as it thunked into the target, next to Sebastian’s.

Sebastian chuckled.  “You’ve been waiting a long while to shoot, haven’t you,” he asked, and Theo nodded, still heeding Mother Igraine’s advice not to say anything stupid.  “I understand,” he said and that struck Theo as so surprising he missed his next shot entirely.

“You’re the Prince of Starkhaven,” Theo finally said, figuring nothing else could make him look any stupider than that miss.  “As the Prince…”

“I have the freedom to do as I wish, yes?” Sebastian asked.  He took another shot that easily hit home.  “Do you know how I came to be the Prince of Starkhaven?” he asked, and Theo shook his head.  All he knew was it had happened in the tumultuous years prior to the Chantry explosion.  His family didn’t share much about the politics of the Marches with their youngest.  “My family was murdered.”  He twirled an arrow between his fingers.  “And what was worse, it happened before I had the opportunity to ask their forgiveness or make amends.”

Theo’s stomach twisted.  “I’m… sorry,” he ventured, because he didn’t know what else to say.  He stared down at his arrow and wondered if it was disrespectful to take another shot after such a statement, or if he was supposed to act natural.  He’d never live this down if this continued to go so badly.

Sebastian’s smile was rueful.  “I was angry and bitter with my family for forcing me into Chantry service.”  He broke the awkwardness by shooting off two arrows at once.  Ah, so they were going onto trick shots, now.  “At first I thought it was because they hated me, and then I realized that they loved me too much to let me keep destroying myself.  But I only realized that after they were all gone.”

Theo nodded and copied Sebastian’s shot.  He hit just outside of the bullseye and Sebastian raised an eyebrow.  “I thought at first the Maker wanted me to be a brother.  To spread Andraste’s Chant to the dark places,” he said.  “But my heart was the true dark place, especially when I let bitterness and vengeance consume me.”

“Did my uncles ask you to speak with me?” Theo asked without looking at him.  He fired off a volley of arrows in rapid succession.  This couldn’t get any worse, and what would his family do about him anyway if this got back to them?  Send him to the Chantry for the rest of his life?  That was already happening.

Sebastian shook his head and matched Theo shot for shot.  “No.  I see your unhappiness and was reminded much of myself at your age.”

Theo laughed.  The Prince didn’t seem much older than him, unless he’d aged remarkably well.  “Even down to the archery.  How did you know?”

“The way you carry yourself.”  Prince Sebastian smiled.  They headed down the range to collect their spent arrows.  “I spent many years fighting the Maker in my heart, Ser Theodane.  I spent more time on vengeance, and not justice.  I spent more time on bitterness rather than forgiveness.  Now, I’m the Prince of Starkhaven, but my family is gone, the Champion and the apostate are still at large, and my spiritual mentor died trying to keep the peace.”  He pulled the arrows from the target.  “Don’t become a slave to bitterness.”

“If all of this means so much to you, why aren’t you going to the Conclave?” Theo asked, tugging out a few of his arrows and stashing them back in his quiver.

“Marcher politics are tricky to navigate, as you no doubt know,” he said, and Theo nodded like he did know.  “Retaking Starkhaven has been a nasty business, and I’ll not leave and risk more upheaval.  Not with the Vael lineage so precarious right now.”

It always came down to lineage and succession, always looking to the future with an anxious eye while almost ignoring the present.  “Um, thanks, then,” Theo said.  “And espeically for this.”  He gestured to the targets with his bow still in hand.  

“I’d heard you enjoyed shooting.  It’s a shame we won’t be able to compete against one another in Tantervale,” he added.  “I’d finally have some competition.”  He was smiling, and he meant it as a compliment, but Theo just felt cold and hollow.  Praise.  Recognition.  And for what?  To be reminded that he was destined to be a nobody forever.

 

* * *

  
  


The procession down to the Kirkwall harbor was solemn, led by Revered Mother Igraine and her acolytes swinging censers.  The clouds bore down heavily, threatening rain and storms and high seas, but that didn’t seem to put anyone in any sort of rush.  They filed through the streets of High Town, past the Chantry ruins, and paused to pray.  They marched through Low Town and the impoverished people peekd out of dirty windows or glared at them from dusty street corners.  For all that Kirkwall was a pilgrimmage destination, Theo wondered how people could just  _ not see _ everything right in front of them.

The ship waiting in the harbor was dark, the hull covered in barnacles.  “Go and do the Maker’s work,” Prince Sebastian said, bowing his head.

“May the Maker bless you and keep you,” the Revered Mother said, lightly touching his shoulder.  All the while servants were hauling baggage and supplies up the gangplank and disappearing into the hull, not unlike ants in and out of an anthill.  He’d seen the ships at the docks in Ostwick, but had never been on one.  He followed the retinue up the gangplank and through the lower decks, and back up onto the main deck.

From here he could look out over the harbor to the Gallows, huge and imposing in the center of the harbor.  Black clouds had settled above it, and a faint rumble of thunder sounded overhead.  Uncle Declan stood beside Theo and followed his gaze.  “Being a templar is a sacred duty,” he said and sounded tired.  “We were supposed to protect mages from man, and man from mages.  Never from other templars.” He sighed and leaned his gauntleted arms on the polished rail.  “It’s up to the Divine now, Andraste bless her.  She’s got quite the job ahead of her.”

Theo only nodded as a cool breeze blew past and he shivered.  The air smelled of rain.  From the main deck he could see the Viscount’s Keep rising up over all of the city.  The Gallows seemed to stare back, defiant.

At last the ropes were cast off from the docks and the anchor raised.  Theo almost didn’t realize they were moving at first, but then the gap between the ship and the dock spread wider and wider, and before he knew it Prince Sebastian and the servants who were returning to Ostwick were growing smaller.  His heart sank; he’d not seen Tristan the groom again, and probably never would.

The ship navigated the strait leading out of Kirkwall harbor.  Two walls of stone rose up on either side, and built into them, massive bronze statues of naked people covering their faces with shame and torment.  A cold knot formed in Theo’s stomach.  The Twins.  Reminders to all entering Kirkwall’s harbor that they were entering a slave city, and that most of them would be slaves of some sort: either actual slaves, or slaves to poverty or to the Chantry or to the Circle.

But the Twins were the last of Kirkwall that Theo was seeing, and it still seemed fitting.


	3. Erudition

 

The ship had put into port in Highever, but apparently the home of the Hero of Ferelden wasn’t worthy of Chantry attention.  Maybe on the way back, Theo thought.  They’d stopped for one night to resupply and get new horses before starting the last leg of their journey: west and then south toward Haven, where the Sacred Ashes of Andraste had been found by the Hero a decade ago.

Though there were inns in Highever, Revered Mother Igraine insisted that they needed to set up camp instead, the better to maintain their pilgrimmage mindset, she said.  But after sermons and supper, Theo could overhear the other clerics talking about the Hero of Ferelden--who also happened to be the Queen of Ferelden.  “It’s unnatural,” one man said, and the sisters listening to him leaned in, doing their best to appear scandalized.  “I know my Blight history.  Every Grey Warden who ever slew an Archdemon died, but the Queen?  She’s as alive as you and me.”

“Or is she?” a sister asked him.  Her lips were pursed with pretend piety.  “I heard she made a deal with a demon to survive.”

“Probably used blood magic to become queen.  Didn’t she have some maleficar companion?” another young woman asked.

“She saved Ferelden, and probably the rest of us,” Theo said, walking by.  “This is what you have to say about her?”  He quickened his step before he could get drawn into an argument about it.  Some repayment: save the world from certain doom, only to have people gossiping about the things you had to do, even ten years later?  Maybe that’s why the other Grey Wardens died during the final battle.  They wanted to be remembered as heroes, rather than live long enough to become villfied.

They rode south along the road on the west shore of Lake Calenhad.  There was little evidence of the Blight on this side of the lake, and less still as they headed toward the foothills of the Frostbacks.  The nights grew colder and the tension thicker.  And then came the morning when Revered Mother Igraine put on her ceremonial vestment, usually reserved for high holidays; when the templars in their party beat the dust from their red skirts and polished their armor to a glaring shine; when all the sisters did one another’s hair identically, and all the brothers made sure their boots were polished and their tunics as crisp as possible.  And then they were packed up and riding uphill along the narrow path into Haven.

Theo shook his hair out of his face and wished he’d had time to shave, but any of the hand mirrors had been in use by the other men: men with roles in the Chantry, with real business at this Conclave.  They stopped in Haven and stabled the horses and when his feet hit the ground, everything had a sudden, frightening reality to it.  He was going to the Conclave.  He was going to see the Divine in person.  He was going to have to pretend, more than ever, that he was concerned by the state of things.  Suddenly another afternoon out shooting with Prince Sebastian, even if he did talk about the Maker the whole time, didn’t sound so bad.

He watched the stablehands lead his horse away.  His pack dangled heavily in his hand at his side.  The afternoon sun was bright off the snow that lingered here in the mountains.  He squinted up the pilgrim’s pathway that would lead to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, but the path took a sharp curve and he saw only pine trees.  He wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere but here, and his mind screamed out in protest as his body numbly followed his uncles in the procession toward the Conclave.  

  
  


The first thing Theo noticed about Divine Justinia was that she looked old and tired.  He’d assumed the Divine would look severe and angry, but Justinia just looked ready to be done with the whole conflict.  The Temple had been declared a neutral zone, so while mages and templars glared at one another and gave each other wide berths, they did not outright argue or fight.

Then he noticed that she wasn’t the tall, imposing woman he thought she might be.  Maybe she had been once, but he noted the stoop of her shoulders: this was a woman who’d carried the world on her back, and it clearly showed.  If anything, he almost felt bad for her. 

Most of the Ostwick Chantry retinue had had to remain behind in Haven, but Igraine and the Trevelyans had been granted accommodations at the Temple itself.  When Theo headed back to his tiny chamber, Declan and Cadan were already in their room next door working on removing their armor while they gushed about the Divine.

“Never thought I’d see Her Perfection in my lifetime,” Declan said.  “Especially with all that happened a few years back.”

Cadan grinned.  “It’s only  _ because  _ of everything blowing up that she called this.”

“I’d heard rumors of an exalted march on Kirkwall,” Declan confessed.  “Honestly, sometimes I’m surprised they don’t just raze the city and start over.”

“And spill more blood and weaken the Veil there further?” Cadan asked.

Theo stood in the doorway listening; usually they just spoke of Chantry business, but nothing quite as interesting as this.  “Where would all the people go, though?” he asked.  “And where would they live once the perfect Kirkwall was rebuilt?”  His uncles turned to see him leaning on the door frame.  “Yeah, it’s a holy pilgrimmage city, I get that.  But… what about the people who live there?  Who had people die there?”  He remembered the sullen faces he’d seen, all the weariness and wariness in the people who had to live there.

“There aren’t any easy answers, Theo,” Cadan said.  He slipped on a crimson tunic with the flaming sword of the templars embroidered on the left breast.  “If there were, we wouldn’t be here.  If there were, Kirkwall wouldn’t have happened in the first place.”  He rolled up his sleeves.  “We were going to go to the sanctuary to pray.  You’re welcome to join us.”

Theo shook his head.  “No thanks.  I’m… tired after today,” he said when no other vaguely convincing lie came to mind.  “I may just try to take it all in.”

That part at least wasn’t a lie.  Though the Divine and her welcome had been the centerpiece of the day, the Conclave’s attendees had captured his interest.  The mages and templars of course caught his eye, but there was a band of Qunari that he’d seen at a distance.  He’d heard people whispering about the Qunari, wondering why the ‘oxmen’ bothered to be here.  There was a cadre of well-dressed dwarves with gold chains woven into their plaited beards, who wore their shortswords for all to see.  One caught Theo glancing at him and smiled, showing off three gold teeth.  Several willowy, tattooed elves hung about at the edges of the crowd.

Theo wondered if he’d see any of them now, or if they too had been relegated to the camps outside of the Temple.  He wandered the halls with soft footfalls, barely making a rustle.   _ I’m a ghost, _ he told himself, smiling slightly.  It was a game he’d played with himself back at home.  If he could be quieter than quiet, walk more softly than soft, no one would notice him.  Could it work here, where everyone had their own agendas?

And if he could be that quiet, and walk that softly; if he could make eveyrone forget he was even there… maybe he could slip right out the front door and make a life for himself.

Theo sighed and headed back to his tiny closet of a room.  It was a nice dream, but that’s all it would ever be.


	4. Canticle of Silence

If Igraine had held mass outside once in awhile, especially on warm days, Theo thought maybe he’d have enjoyed it more.  Perhaps Justinia’s sermon, given in a cathedral of pine boughs and mountainsides, would inspire the Ostwick Revered Mother once they returned.  Theo glanced over at Igraine, stiff and solid and thoroughly unimpressed with the woods around them and decided stranger miracles had happened.

He closed his eyes and smelled the cold and snow and pine, all things they did not have nearly enough of in his part of the Free Marches.  The cold was beautiful and the way the soft snow muffled his steps was wonderful.  His breath steamed in the air and his hands were red from the cold, but this was the most he’d enjoyed himself since target practice with Prince Sebastian.

But his enjoyment was short-lived.  He and his uncles marched back inside, part of a sea of Chantry sorts.  The Qunari stood a head and shoulders taller than everyone else and were easy to see; the dwarves and elves blended in a little better.  “What are they all doing here?” he whispered to Uncle Cadan as they settled in their pews.

Cadan shrugged.  “This is the first time something like this has happened in living history.  I’d guess they’re all interested in what’s happening, and how it will affect their people.”  

The din died down as Justinia finally entered, holding her hand up for silence.  “Magic exists to serve man, never to rule over him,” she began, but held her hand up again as the ranks of mages started to protest.  “But what has happened?  We have allowed magic to rule us, through our fear of it, rather than the existence and use of magic itself.  And that is what brings us here.  To find a way for magic to serve us again, not to be ruled by fear.”

Then the litany of appeals and testimonies began.  Mages, abused by Circles, passionately denounced the system.  Theo furrowed his brow.  His oldest sister was a mage, and had been off to the Circle of Ostwick since before he was born.  He felt a gnawing feeling in his stomach, wondering if Maranda had ever been subjected to this sort of thing.  He looked over at Cadan and then at Declan.  They served the Ostwick Circle; they wouldn’t let that sort of thing happen.  Or would they?  

After a brief recess they were back at it again, but this time it was the templars who were called to speak their piece.  Theo was ready to doze off when Cadan’s armor creaked beside him, and his uncle marched to the front of the rows of pews and stood before the Divine.  He bent to one knee and kept his head down.

“Arise, Ser…” The Divine prompted.

Cadan did as commanded.  “Ser Cadan, Knight-Lieutenant of the Circle of Ostwick, Your Perfection.”

“Ser Cadan.  I have heard that the Ostwick Circle maintains neutrality and seeks only to continue as a sanctuary for mages, and for those who would protect them.”

“That is true, Most Holy.”  He turned to face the gathering.  Theo leaned forward, elbows on his knees.  “The Trevelyans of Ostwick have served the Maker since they were established.  We have served as lay brothers and sisters and acolytes.  There may have been a Revered Mother some generations back.  We have served as templars.  And when mages have arisen from our lineage, we have gone to the Circle as is our duty under the will of the Maker.”  

Was this what his father had meant about seeing to the Trevelyan interests at this Conclave? Theo wondered.

“My brother, Ser Declan and I, have served the Order since we were young men.  We spent time in other Circles, but the Maker sought to bring us back to Ostwick.  Our mages have been safe there.  They are protected by the templars stationed there.”  He took a deep breath.  “Denounce the violence of the templars; order us to reestablish ourselves as protectors of the faith and of those the Maker has gifted with Magic.”

“They’re all waiting to become cursed maleficar!” someone shouted.  “ _Any_ Circle could be the next Gallows or Kinloch Hold!”

“Kinloch Hold was a case of an angry mage taking adantage of the Blight.”  Declan stood up and Theo slouched down.  “The Blight was a distraction.”

“Any distraction could lead to abominations and violence!  Nullify the Circles!” someone shouted.

The hatred and anger in the voice made Theo’s skin crawl.  He didn’t know what that meant, but the way the voice dripped with rage was enough to tell him it was bad.  He didn’t know how many mages were in Thedas; but it sounded like the person was proposing killing them all off.  And then what?  Kill anyone from here on out who showed inklings of magical talent?  It kind of negated what the Divine had just said about not living in fear.

But there were too many people, with too many agendas and interests, for anyone to see reason.  By the end of the day Theo’s head hurt and he felt like he was suffocating.  His room was too small, and the one tiny window didn’t help--it just made him feel even angrier and more cooped up.  He needed to get back out into the snow and the pine trees.  He needed to start running, as far and fast as he could.  But where?  Not back to Ostwick, certainly.  Maybe he could go west into Orlais?  Anywhere but here.

The hour was late, but if he didn’t get out of at least his room he was going to explode.  He opened the door, only to find a guard in Trevelyan livery standing there.  “Can I get you anything, serah?” he asked, pleasantly enough, but making it clear that Theo wasn’t going anywhere.

The next day was much the same as the first: more mages and templars, more yelling and screaming. Theo closed his eyes and rubbed his temples.  The noise pressed down on his ears.  People jumped out of their chairs with clanking, creaking armor and swishing robes.  

And then silence.

Theo opened his eyes and looked around.  The great doors in the back of the hall had opened, and a contingent of Grey Wardens entered.  Their silverite scalemail clinked as they made their way in.  They wore quilted blue coats and polished silverite breastplates emblazoned with griffons, and their faces were haggard from travel.

“Welcome, avengers of the Blights,” Divine Justinia said, with true gratitude in her voice.  

“In peace, vigilance; in war, victory.  In death, sacrifice,” the woman at the head of the column said, placing her right fist over her heart and bowing.  The others did likewise.  

“As those who have mages and former templars in their ranks, and those who are vigilant in ways we cannot be, you are welcome here,” the Divine told them.

“Wasn’t the apostate a Grey Warden before he went to Kirkwall?” Declan murmured and Cadan shrugged.  “Just not sure it’s a great idea for them to be here.”

“There are even Qunari here, Dec,” Cadan said.  “I don’t think having some Wardens is entirely out of the ordinary.  I think we’re safe.”

“Oh, I don’t mean us being safe from them,” Declan said.  “I’m more concerned about them being safe from us.”

Even Theo’s arrows were not as sharp or precise as the glares of hatred aimed at the Wardens by most of the templars present.

But the Wardens did not speak; they sat at the back of the hall, and their presence was nearly forgotten as the bickering started all over again.

It went long into the afternoon and evening.  Theo longed to stand up, to run, to walk… anything other than sit here with his head spinning from all the information.  He didn’t know what he was supposed to do here; what was he looking for?  What was he supposed to report back?  He could imagine the letter right now: Dear Father, there was a lot of yelling.  Nothing was solved.  Give my love to mother.  

Even in the midst of all the angry shouting Theo was able to smile, if just a little bit.  His father would hate it.  Maybe he would send that letter after all.

“Let us pray,” Divine Justinia announced over the din of people talking amongst themselves.  Relief.  Another day almost over.

But he found the arguments carried on into the night. Even his uncles were debating between themselves.   _Maybe I can find the Wardens,_ Theo thought, slipping past his uncles’ chambers.   _Join up with them.  They’re always looking for recruits.  They could use a decent archer._  Now _that_ was something that would really make his father shit himself.

Well.  He could at least talk with them, let them know he was interested, right?

But he didn’t know if he really was interested in the Wardens.  In peace, vigilance.  He’d be exchanging one life of service for another.  Maybe he was just being selfish.  Maybe the Maker had created him to serve in some capacity or another, a thought that, in this setting should have been comforting.  But it just made him feel desperate.  

He had to clear his head.  And he couldnt’ do it with stone walls pressing in on him from all directions.  He cracked the wooden door.  No guard that he could see.  He stepped out, and the guard who’d been standing on the other side of the doorjamb snapped to attention.  “Serah, if you’ll let me know how I can best attend you, I will do so.  But I ask that you return to your quarters.”

Theo sighed.  He looked at the guard: he wore light armor.  He had a shield with the Trevelyan crest, and a sword in a scabbard.  Theo himself wasn’t encumbered.

He ran.  He spun and took off down one hallway, then another, taking as many twists and turns as he could to confuse the guard if he was in pursuit.  Theo dashed up a staircase, then down a hall way, his feet pounding on the stone floor.  It felt good to move, to put distance between himself and what essentially amounted to his captor.  His run slowed to a jog, and then he ducked into an alcove and listened.

It was dark and quiet.  He was still in the Temple, but maybe he could get out, now that he’d gotten this far.  He doubted it was worth Chantry and Conclave resources to hunt down a wayward son from Ostwick.  

He had to think.  His room had been on the second floor of the Temple, and he’d gone up one staircase.  There weren’t ramparts that he could recall, and he was ill-equipped to scale down the wall.  He’d probably fall and die, or worse, become crippled and have to serve the Chantry anyway.  He paused to listen: silence.  No one was on his trail.

Theo ducked back out into the hallway, walking slow and soft in the shadows.  This was what he was good at; this was what he’d grown up learning to do.  Darkness was an old friend.  He found another stairwell and followed it down, holidng his breath at the landing.  Nothing.  He went down one more floor.  He was on the other side of the Temple from the main entrance.  They would guard that; if he tried the main door, no story he told would get him out.  He’d have to find a back door here.  That’s all.

He slunk through the shadows when a cry for help split the night.  “Help me!” the woman’s voice cried again.  Theo’s hair stood on end and a tingle ran up his spine.

“Keep the sacrifice still,” a muffled, deep voice ordered.

“Please help!” she screamed again.

Blood magic?  Templars attacking a mage? Theo didn’t know, but the desperation in that voice forced him into a run.  He tried various doors; all locked, as people turned in for the night.  How had they not heard the scream?  He pushed open a door that gave way.

The tang of magic was heavy in the air: evil magic, old magic that he’d never felt before.

“Now comes the hour of our betrayal,” the deep voice said again.  A hulking figure approached the sacrifice--was that the Divine?  

“What’s going on?” Theo asked, and immediately cursed himself for sounding so stupid.

The figure turned; it held a crackling orb in its clawed hand.  Divine Justinia looked over at him.  Their eyes met just briefly before she managed to swing her arm out of the binding spell, knocking the orb into the air.

Theo probably should have thought first.

He probably should have done a lot of things.

All he saw was the orb falling toward the stone floor.  It reminded him of the time he’d knocked over a vase.  He dove for that vase, knowing his mother would be so angry if it broke…

He did that now.

The heavy stone orb landed in his hand.

Silence.  Darkness.  Light.  Noise. Darkness.  Silence.

* * *

 

_The blast had incinerated trees and grasses and melted rock.  Gigantic shards of red crystal jutted from the earth, hissing with angry magic.  Green light swirled in the sky.  Only partial walls remained, the edges charred black.  Petrified bodies turned to ash and crumbled, flying away on the hot wind, all but one: the young man who stumbled through the portal of white light, shoved forward by the silouhette of a woman before he collapsed on the burned stones._

_Other than the fact that he was alive, there was nothing particularly distinguishing about him: dark hair, tall and thin.  But when he rolled over, his left hand glowed the same bright, angry green as the swirling maelstrom in the sky._

_No one knew what had happened; all anyone knew was that the Divine was dead.  And juding from the magic mark on his hand, he had probably caused it.  Perhaps he had survived, but Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast would make sure he wished that he hadn’t.  Someone would answer for this, no matter what she had to do to make it so._

 


End file.
